


The Restless and Depraved

by hallowedmaiden



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: 80's Music, F/M, Fountain of Youth, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-20 23:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11345460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hallowedmaiden/pseuds/hallowedmaiden
Summary: Modern Fountain of Youth story. Disregards OST and DMTNT.This is a trial story that sets Jack in the 1980's Hollywood rock scene.It will be Sparrabeth.





	The Restless and Depraved

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this is a trial story, one that I wrote quite a long time ago actually with intention of turning it into a modern Fountain of Youth story (that disregards OST and DMTNT) in which Jack has become a guitarist in an 80's rock band, ala Motley Crue or Iron Maiden (something like that), and reconnects with Elizabeth. 
> 
> I am interested in some feedback to decide if I should continue it, or what kind of direction it should go in. Just kind of want to throw it on here and see what happens! 
> 
> I will most likely be editing the bit that I have posted now, because it was written back in 2012, and has remained largely untouched since then.
> 
> Thanks guys!

Static electricity hung in the air, and every drop of rain splashing against the concrete sizzled with the sound of it. The echoes of the screams inside seemed to reverberate off of the billowing black clouds that blanketed the sky. Hundreds of fans had clawed and stampeded their way to the show, lying and tricking their way through parents and bouncers, to see the flashing black guitar and pounding drums of the band now before their wonder-glazed irises. Sweat flung in every direction, and the very atmosphere dripped with a sense of freedom.

A sonic boom swept across the crowd as they finished a song, and the hushed silence swam through their ears as they waited to see the band's next move.

A pair of studded boots carried a pair of studded leather pants, that led to a black shirt with "I Accept Sex Donations Backstage" blazed across the front of it in blood red letters. Shaggy chest-length black hair hung down from a finely chiseled face, which housed a pair of chocolate brown eyes smoldering behind a layer of black kohl and impossibly long eyelashes. Lips that had no business being on a man curved into a secret-heavy smirk, that fooled every drooling girl in the room into thinking that he was definitely the guy for them, despite how he went through women like he went through his money and drugs.

The stage seemed to shiver as he scuffed his way to the front, and watched in almost comical wonder as every person in the place entered a drone like trance, staring up at him as though they expected him to start glowing.

Clutching the microphone, he let the crowd hold their breath just a little longer before he spoke.

"What the fuck." A grin spread across his lips, no doubt a byproduct from the bottles of Jack Daniels he had consumed before the show, served to him by a girl that was probably a runaway. There were so many of those, all desperately trying to find themselves in this wasteland that people called Hollywood.

"I don't even know what to say, except...well, just fuck. I know we say this at every show-hell, every band says this at their shows. You guys are just great, ya know. We wouldn't be up here if it weren't for you. Silver wouldn't get to whine about how they didn't put the right porn posters in the tour trailer, and I wouldn't get to fuck up his worthless face because of it."

The drummer, Silver Jones, glared at his back, silently promising to switch out his precious Jack Daniels with drain cleaner at the next possible chance. It was a love-hate relationship that they shared.

Before he could speak again, some wasted girl from the back screamed his name.

"Jack, I love you!"

Jack resisted the temptation to roll his eyes.

"If you want, darling, I can bring you back to the trailer tonight where you can show me just how much you love me." A collective glare was shot in the direction of the back from every girl there. Well, if he didn't bring her back to the trailer, one of the other guys would. It might as well be him.

Playing this act on stage was something he had perfected a long time ago. Truthfully, he didn't give much of a damn about sex anymore. He didn't give much of a damn about anything anymore.

The rest of the show turned into a hazy blur, as the latest round of withdrawal attacks ate at his veins until they felt like they had cyanide racing through them. Jack Sparrow was an addict.

* * *

He stumbled into the trailer as though he was missing his feet, but had somehow learned to walk on stumps. The rest of the guys were there, staring at him with the kind of look that one gave when they want to get pissed, but know they were just doing the same thing, so they probably should just keep their fucking mouths shut.

"What the fuck are you staring at?", he slurred, not in a drunken way, but in a way that screamed that he had reached his wit's end with life, and was going to be forced to keep on running. No one answered him, for which he was glad because he didn't feel like talking anyway.

Reaching the hovel that they called the bedroom of their tour trailer, he slumped down onto the bed, and half-heartedly reached for one of the Playboy magazines that Cane liked to stock up on. Nasty fucker, that guy. Some of the women he brought in made Jack want to drown himself in drugs just so he could avoid seeing them. He had only hired the guy to play the bass because he already hated him. Already hating someone makes it easier to continue hating them for all the stupid shit that being in a band apparently causes them to do.

The women in the Playboy, however, were a far cry from ugly. If he had even an ounce of motivation at that moment to do anything other than shoot up, he would consider jerking off. Motivation just wasn't in his vocabulary anymore. He only took drugs so he could function without looking like the undead, when before they were his life. Now, they were only destroying it, one brain cell at a time.

He whipped the magazine at the wall without watching to see where it landed and fumbled for his spoon and baggie.

When the heroin invaded his collapsed worms that were once veins, he descended into a detached pleasure-filled world of blackness that made his eyes glaze over as though he really was deceased.

* * *

 

He woke up to Leoh rubbing a pair of panties in his face. After getting over the fact that he was being smothered with a pair of panties, which took all of a millisecond, his fist attacked Leoh's face like a wrecking ball, with one goal in his mind: to fuck up the guy's mouth bad enough so the idiot lost the ability to sing for the next show. Nothing else would make him happier than to just lay in this bed and contemplate all of the ways that he had fucked up his life, and how long he was going to have to live with it. Forever. Fucking goddamn forever.

Once Leoh's lips looked like he had just injected a gallon of botox, he stalled his vicious mauling. The singer stood waving out an arm in surrender, clutching his face in an attempt to stem the flow of blood seeping between his fingers. Silver stumbled in and glanced at Leoh, then to him, and he prepared for the attack of almost mutant rage that the drummer possessed.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Jack! What the fuck are you doing? I mean, fuck, it's not that I am surprised but goddamn. You realize that we can't fucking play now, right? Leoh's mouth fucking looks like a chick on her period, and you don't even fucking care, do you?"

He rolled his eyes with the attitude of someone who had heard this rage lecture a thousand times before. He didn't give a single fuck about Leoh's face. He might've once, but not anymore. The fucker rubbed panties in his face. He deserved it.

"Whatever, Leoh. I am going to go out and fucking...I don't know...not be here. Fuck this place."

He grabbed a shirt, a jacket, and his smokes, and slammed the trailer door with the intent to slam it off its hinges. What a fucking dump.

As he walked across the field, he suddenly had flashbacks of his life, almost 300 years ago. Although, now it just seemed like such a strange dream that he had trouble believing that it was reality once. He had a ship, the Black Pearl. He lifted his wrist, staring at the spot where his brand once was. That had disappeared, along with every other scar he had had, when he drank from that fountain. The Fountain of Youth. Of course, he had a new plethora of scars to replace them. Everyone he knew then was dead now, save for Elizabeth. In a stroke of suddenness, which came as an earth-shattering shock to him, she had scooped up some of the water and sloshed it down her throat, as though she was dieing of thirst.

He had never managed to get her to tell him why. She disappeared from his life shortly afterwards.

What the fuck...that was such a long goddamn time ago. He felt like a totally different person now, as though he was one of those crazies with a hundred multiple personalities buried in him. Captain Jack Sparrow was probably still in him somewhere, but at that moment, he didn't give two fucks about finding him. Soul-searching wasn't his thing.

He reflected on life in that moment. In the last five minutes. Here he was, a drugged out guitar player, reminiscing about his old life as a pirate captain. What the hell. He burst out laughing, not the joyful kind of laughter, but the kind that starts when you have absolutely nothing left that you find funny. The kind that is the product of near insanity.


End file.
